Fallen For Good: Chaos
by Blind Loyalty
Summary: Breaking away from her Sith heritage, Neith has emerged into a world heading towards chaos. With an uncertain future and a past to surmount, new friends and enemies to help and hinder, can she break her chains and find her own path? Approx 3,056 BBY
1. Prologue

Prologue

All there is, is red. Screaming and clashing, the tang of ozone filling the enclosed area. We had started our battle in the massive Entrance Hall, darting and dashing amongst the mighty pillars that lined the walls. Now we dance around to tighter quarters, where I lose my advantage. But my bloodlust is peaking and the red glow of three lightsabres is starting to wash out my vision. They – that is, none of them – think I would dare. My body trembles and my nerves twinge. It's nearly impossible to tell, until of course, you're writhing and screaming in pain.

The threshold, a metre or so in length and barely enough headroom to pass through, fills with Force Lightning. I unleash, feeling it rebound and sting and sear my own skin. But the screams of my enemy are more delicious than the scorching heat needling and burning my body. A roar of agony is silenced by my firmly pressed lips. I can smell cooked meat. A coughing, struggling heap is at my feet.

I am still Sith enough to sneer.

"Weak," I mutter, my skin blackening in spots along my arms, my lashes singed. My lips crack with speech and blood seeps down my chin. I plunge the tip of my right sabre through the downed Sith's throat. Movement is agony. I stride forward with confidence, feeding off the pain, walking over the dead. The pain covers my body; it tingles. It curves up and down my spine and drives my muscles to contract, deigning to curl me up into a tight little ball.

Even as a child I knew better.

I embrace the pain, opening up to it, in what I now realise is self-righteousness. _I can suffer this much and survive. I am strong._

And now I have new quarry. I had better make this quick, because my left arm is still smouldering. With an imperceptible movement of my head and a controlled inhalation, the Force bursts before the three Apprentices across the throne room. They slam into the drab, dark grey wall. One decorates it pink and red with a smashed skull. The other two are still alive. They scramble up onto their feet and lunge forward. The snap-hiss of sabres re-igniting delights me. The air around them crackles with pent up energy. One knows what he is in for; he runs away.

I let him. If anyone survives this, he will be the first executed. If no one survives this, he'll be the only smart one.

The other reacts automatically, lifting his purple sabre to catch the lightening that will surely come. I taste the Force around him, feeling it rush to me and back. He is wary of the warning, and he is right to be. But I'm past trickery and games, I simply want this over with. The overly paranoid Sith brain would have been a boon in any other situation.

I am anything but a normal Sith situation.

Still walking, eyes locked ahead, I hold my left sabre locked behind my back. One push and he could bisect me on my own weapon. Apparently he isn't in the mood to attack. I'd grin, but my mouth has been brutalised enough. Rather, I hope that my eyes convey my amusement and delight. The cold, hard fact that he will die, and I will enjoy it; immensely. He moves a step back, sabre now outstretched, just waiting.

I would often use the behind-the-back sabre show to intimidate or test a situation. If he isn't willing to take the opportunity, then there are reasons why. He takes another step back and I disengage my left sabre, a slight chill tickling the back of my neck. My sabres are up and to the left, ignited and striking against purple before my brain realises what happened. The veiled, cowled face of an Apprentice stares up at me. I know she is; I can feel those piercing eyes, I know it in the Force. She wants to fight me, but she doesn't want me dead. She's too conflicted and confused to make a decision on the events transpiring, but she wants to protect her friend.

How touching. I kick her in the stomach and snap a kick at the side of her head. Thankfully I catch her and she goes down. A brief second of debate and she isn't worth the time. What will killing her grant me anyway? Another corpse to my name?

I brush past the boy, who doesn't even bother with me now. I think he's in shock. I suppose I would be too, if I had been a witness to the day's fighting and massacre. Apparently the Sith do this every so often, though not for the reasons I am.

Usually we slaughter each other for the top position.

I'm doing it so I can get out.


	2. Chapter I

Chapter I

The Lower City was always filled with sound and stench. It was endlessly lit up, no matter the hour, with buzzing broken lights or ones that had been stolen from Upper Levels. It was amusing to think of young kids running up and down level for centuries-burning light emitters. Dodging authorities, risking capture, to prove to some scum crime boss that they were swift enough to be a runner or carrier for them.

A group of mixed species children, all of them dirty and all of them criminals, went speeding down one of the many down-level streets. It was mostly foot-traffic, but there were some vehicles moving about storeys overhead. Muted sunlight filtered down to the re-structured Lower City. No one would ever call it rebuilt. The people here dealt with what they had been left. They made homes, villages, cities within the planet-city. There were shops and cantinas, even a few places to get run down speeders fixed up. It took a lot of skill to be able to work an engine down here, but apparently it was possible.

The smell of the engines was interesting. It still got to her every time. The feel of sunlight every day for the past standard week was brilliant. She held out her black-banded arms in hopes that she would soak up the grubby light. Somehow it was oily looking, nothing like she remembered from those rare, forbidden trips to the Upper City. Not that she was complaining. It was a novelty and still a thrill to be out here, standing amongst people, not having a mission or reason. She was merely another nobody, and that was also brilliant. Scanning the tattooed skin under the new black bands, she studied the marring sheen of scar tissue. The Force had helped her heal more rapidly, true, but she was no healer. She had done enough to avoid infection and healed sufficiently to hide her arms with a new, striking outfit. The outfit itself wasn't what she so liked; straight black tunic with utility pants and heavy boots she suspected came from the corpse of a Mandalorian. It was the circles of black synth-nerf hide that she really liked. From shoulder to wrist were eye-catching bands; then she had taped her fingers just the same. She had been delighted to find that her grip was improved.

She had just come back from the repair shop and was now resting against a wall, sitting on the filthy ground. The wall was black with blaster scorching, and had a peppering of projectile holes. Quite a few of the gang- and criminal-types had the older slugthrowers and generally used them successfully. This example on the wall had either been unsuccessful, for lack of blood, or a warning shot. She could feel a few holes under her back. Deftly she took out her new prizes, and slipped the pieces of _beskar_ up her arms. Two hard grips held the piece of metal against her skin, on the outside of her forearm. She repeated with her right arm. She studied her arms for a moment and flexed a few times. It was tight, and she would have to adjust, but it looked perfect. The thin plating added a new dimension to her fighting technique and it would be interesting to learn how it changed her. Every addition to battle: be it a new Force technique or a new sabre, or even a new piece of armour, changed the depth and methodology of it.

Putting her new armour to the ultimate test, she grabbed an elastic from her black, light-armour woven utility pants and put her burnished blonde hair into a bun at the back of her head. Slinging her satisfactorily-armoured arms over her knees, she watched the denizens of the Lower City mull around and go about their business. She had no business, per se. There were things she wanted to do, a drive and passion in her that just wouldn't let her rest. But with no idea on where to start, she felt slightly overwhelmed. It would have been bitterly funny if it wasn't so hopelessly confusing. Never, in her life, had she not has purpose.

There had always been a Master, a Leader, a Lord, a Teacher. Her own Master had been there for as long as she remembered. The first thing she had learned was obedience. Obedience did not translate well into self-sufficiency. She could steal some food, and after the first day, had been desperate enough to do so. The people she stole from had nothing, either, so she felt pathetic. That had lead to musing over the stale bread she had taken. The musing had lead to the realisation that if the family had been rich, she wouldn't have felt guilty.

The five ransacked families, she was sure, felt differently about her actions than she did. However, with a pocket stuffed with credits, and a belly full of food from the conservators, she really didn't care. In fact, she felt righteous. It was a shivery, _good_ feeling. It was akin to killing someone who really, truly deserved it.

Those credits had bought a short sword, which was more useful in a pinch than a lightsabre for her joyous romps. Dual red glowing sticks waving around usually were noticeable by even the most dimwitted human. If someone gave her trouble, she wanted it to be a robbery gone badly. The Upper City was a place for more caution. Down here, however, in the Lower City, she didn't mind the attention. In fact, sometimes, she wanted it. Fear was a useful tool, and it kept sentients well in check.

There had to be something other than musing and being-watching to occupy her days. On the other hand, that was the problem; there wasn't anything else to occupy her days. Thankfully the beings around here usually provided some sort of entertainment. Though she didn't find it as amusing as she once would have. A human female, far younger than she looked, stumbled by in a baggy tan outfit. It was dirty and she scratched at her left arm, looking furtively about. Neith scowled; there was nothing she hated seeing more than people scratching at themselves. They were either on spice, or were in desperate need of it. The Force in and around the human girl flickered faintly. She wasn't doing too well. Neith bowed her head and looked away, not quite knowing yet how to react. Most ignored, some sneered or were disgusted. How would those people feel, though, if they could know the suffering of others, and reject the self-righteous power it imbued? Would those people still look away, would they still spit at her?

Looking up from under her brows, she saw the girl go behind the mechanic's shop. There was a small, narrow alley back there. She had seen many a door back there. There was probably a spiceden; they seemed to be everywhere, catering to every need and want. Living a life devoid of such things, she couldn't understand. What made people do that? What made them so pathetic and weak?

Out of the alley came a tall human male, very light skinned with blindingly blonde hair. He was, for the area, well dressed if somewhat ostentatious. And he was leading the over-dressed dirty girl in tan under his arm. Chatting with her, flashing her all-too-kind massive smiles of the same brilliance as his hair.

Neith felt a surge of sudden anger. The girl kept scratching. She nodded her head almost imperceptibly, as if his words were rhythmic music. The two crossed a main street, still talking. Or, he seemed to do the talking, and she simply agreed with him. Neith's narrowed, suspicious eyes followed. At one point, the girl turned slightly, grabbing the man's arm. She looked desperate, pleading. Almost begging.

He took her hand off him and deftly set it aside. His face was a struggle; it was twisting in disgust, while trying hard to not look so horrified. After a heated talking to, and the girl cowering and backing off a bit, an agreement seemed to be come to. The two were talking again, their voices muted by the ambient noise of the streets. All that was noticeable was body language and moving lips. It seemed like a business deal to Neith; the posturing had ended, as had the measuring of each other. Now it was two beings trying to get the best of one another.

There was something in this scene that gave Neith a sinking, gnawing feeling in her belly. There wasn't much she knew about except killing and manipulation. The latter this man had by the dozens. She was imploring him for more spice, and he was obliging, at a huge cost to the girl. How would this make him strong? Obviously he couldn't enslave her if she wasn't addled; if that was the case, he was the weak one. Abusing someone weaker didn't make one strong; it made one pathetic.

Indignant and irritated, Neith stood and clutched the hilt of her short sword. It stuck up on her left hip, in perfect gripping range for either hand. These were the times she was immensely aware. The girl had brown, filthy hair. It was flyaway, escaping the tail she had clumsily twisted it into. Repulsors from speeders and transports rumbled and pulsed overhead. Sometimes she could feel the heat, or the breeze. There were people of varying species and sizes all around, going about their business. The tall woman in all-black with the weird arms and sunken eyes was definitely not a gawking point. Not if they generally knew what was good for them.

Generally they did; generally they were right.

This was the point in time, nearing her prey, that the sabres would come out. Within another few steps, they would ignite. Then, ever closer, they would dance intricately, before entering _Juyo_, the seventh and most frenetic sabre form. Her Master had trained her in a nearly psychotic blend of form four, _Ataru_, and seven, _Juyo_. She could use either, or both, at will. Depending on her mood, or the situation, she would switch through them. This sort of fight needed none of the touches of _Ataru_. Straight, nasty, heartless was the way of this fight.

That wasn't her way anymore. Struggling with herself, she clenched her jaw. Her palms ached for the slap of her sabres in them. Her arms begged to be released into their habitual forms, their normal movements. The entirety of her body felt chained, constricted, limited. The opposite of what she was trying to do.

It was all habit, she had to remind herself, not truly a reflection of herself, but muscle memory. Her face set in a grimace, she stepped to the male and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and she bristled, her eyes locking on his. To speak, she would, at some point, have to release the clench she had on her teeth and tongue. At the moment, staring at him, at the aloofness settling in on his face, at the superior, fake smile beginning to form, she just wanted to blast him with the Force. More satisfyingly, she could connect her fist with his face, and then with the air behind his head.

The girl took a step back, but wasn't willing to leave yet, her desperation for spice the only thing truly occupying her mind. But this figure who had come over had interrupted the deal. Sure, she had been kicked out of _Carsums_, but it didn't mean they wouldn't still sell to her. Poth didn't care who or what came in, he was always friendly and willing to give out what he had. At a price, but everything had a price, that didn't matter. And yeah, sure, he charged her more, because it had to be done in less secure areas, but hey, she got that too. Then this schutta had to step up and just ruin everything for her. Snarling, she reached out and gave the black-clad woman a shove. Her fingers met a patch of skin that had been covered in tattoo, and was now just shimmering scar tissue.

Neith recoiled instinctively, the blade unsheathing and pressing against the male's throat in one swift move, her attention and severe glower now meted at the female.

"Idiot," she barked, practically seething. She hadn't even been warned by the Force. That would have frightened her, if the press hadn't been so feeble, and if it had merited any measure of the word danger whatsoever. The girl was cowering now, and Neith tried to temper her voice. Holding out a hand, ignoring the guy who was utterly stunned, she tried to placate her. "Hey, look, I'm just trying to help. You're making yourself weak by doing this. It's stupid. I mean... why?" She honestly had no idea what to say, and her words sounded fake to even herself. Finally her true question and burning curiosity came out. Why did the girl do this? Why did she weaken herself and ruin her life to give this man control over her?

At a faint protest from Poth, she snarled at him and retracted her blade, re-sheathing it.

"Because," he said, trying to be smooth with too much panic to his voice, "she knows where to relax." He smoothed down his clothes unnecessarily, to try and gain some control over himself.

Neith glanced at the girl and furrowed her brow. "You two are kriffing morons, you know that?"

They stared at her. Then Poth's ire started to grow. She felt it flame softly warm in the Force. Basking in it a moment, she let a smile turn her nearly-healed lips. It was like returning home, soothing and sweet with all the familiar smells. Something one curled up in instinctively; went to when in pain. It grew and she mentally lapped at it, hungry for more. She would make him scream, make his true anger and pain come out, bask in his hatred and suffering. He would choke on his own blood and she would gorge on his boiling, billowing hatred.

She snapped to. Her eye twitched and the pair she accosted collectively moved away from her.

"Go," Neith choked out, clutching at her chest. They stared at her in shock. "Go before I kill you," she managed to say before becoming consumed. The idiots, the fools, the weak. They should all suffer. They deserved to suffer. A scream bubbled to her lips, the need to fall seizing her body until she was doubled over. She couldn't decide whether to howl and attack something, or fall to the ground sobbing. The agony, the need, it was all so eternally consuming.

She wanted them to suffer.

A hand touched black bands and tortured once ink covered flesh. The hand was cold, the rush of deep-seated emotion was just as frigid; but it soothed. Neith groaned and opened her eyes, lifting her head. She couldn't manage to lift the rest of her body quite yet.

The girl looked at her, eyes wide, afraid of having her head lopped off.

Neith watched her. The girl crouched there, afraid, but was there, touching her.

"I am weak," she whispered to Neith, her eyes filling with tears. "And I deserve to die."

Standing up straight, a part of her twinged, eagerly willing to indulge. Her fingers flexed and the Force rushed through her, begging to be released. They were the only two standing together; their third had apparently run off.

"Why?" Neith asked then, once more, the rest of her ignoring her most base urges.

The shabby girl shrugged and hugged herself. "Something to escape, y'know?"

Neith shook her head. "Escape what?"

Pausing, her voice cracking and trembling, the girl shook her head and spoke. "Everything."

Neith was alone, on the street, standing there as others passed her. People who had nothing still had enough to live on; it was obvious, because they gave up the last of it to the dens. The girl could have done something, but she hadn't. Or had she been preyed upon by weaker fools, who tricked her and cajoled her? Did that make her weaker too? Groaning, Neith yanked a small, multi-faceted mechanical object the size of her palm.

_Or was the fact that she had to be made pathetic to be preyed upon mean that those who prey upon her are the weak ones? They cannot force their strength on anyone but those more vulnerable than themselves. They are the weak ones. By making others weak, they have a false impression of strength, making themselves stronger in their own eyes. In reality, they are bullies, unable to impose dominance except by stepping on worms._

No longer was it always necessary to actually watch or hear the recordings. Simply holding the holocron, feeling it, was often enough now. Clutching it and feeling it press into the bands on her fingers, she had to suppress a laugh. Walking off towards her shelter, she found amusement in herself. Once she would have relished the pain of the edges cutting into her skin. It would have stabilised her, strengthened her. Now she unwittingly denied herself even that. Removing the bands on her fingers would fix that problem; however, was that what she truly wanted? Was such an act necessary? Or should she take the lessons for what they were? Did she have to fall on old habits and old ways just to satisfy her own urges?

Or could she learn something from the girl instead? A girl who would probably die soon, who had a mind and body utterly dependant on spice. Perhaps the better question for Neith was; did she want to?

* * *

_A/N: just waiting for chapter II to be beta'd. He has it, just has to go through it. If anyone sees anything, or has any suggestions or critiques (not flames, please; flames are pointless and the stuff of pathetic teenagers), they are more than welcome. Constructive critisism (and hey, if you desperately want to heap praise, well, I won't argue that either XD) is always a good thing._

_Review? They are my lifesblood -- especially with too many fictions on the go.... please?_

_BL_


	3. Chapter II

I was convinced to return to this story. I hope to finish it, I'm totally in love with the overall plot, and each story's plot should be good too. As always, read and review :) Oh, and critiques don't scare me, and flames toast gelatin-free marshmallows xD

BL

* * *

Chapter II

Most of the planet was still in ruin. This had some benefits as it allowed natural growth to flourish between the long-crumbled ecumenopolis's many cracks. Black-banded hands brushed through fern-like foliage. The tips of the large leaves had a whip quality to them, giving Neith's fingertips each a little bite. Her scarred skin glistened in the fading light. Tattoos twisted into nothingness or into haphazard new shapes from the injury and subsequent healing process. She imagined to others she was far more frightening than she had thought. Casing an objective study of herself it was almost obvious then why that girl had spurned her.

That girl... she still annoyed Neith. An itch inside her brain, a little gnawing bug deep in her ear she just could not dislodge. It aggravated her more than the tender tickle of the tips of grass and furry seedlings against the exposed flesh of her palms. It burrowed into her mind, rooted itself deep. There was something niggling within her, screaming for her attention. She could smell then that the sun was moving further down the horizon; a waft of air breezed its way across the fresh drying green around her. It awoke during twilight and let loose its scents. The dipping sunlight had always been her favourite time, her guilty pleasure. She swore her Master had known and still questioned why he allowed it.

Distractions were unforgiving, it seemed. They would not cease. The smell of tiny flowers rose from within the grasses. Had she opened her eyes, a field of purple and blue would have burst about her. It was unimportant. She could feel the hum of life beneath her, around her, that simple sense of last-ditch photosynthesis. The awakening of bugs for the night, hunting down their blood-filled prey, the start of their own daily cycle. Or the beetles who specifically fed at this time upon the colourful flowers, tearing each tiny petal to shreds. Pitiful confetti was all that would be left in the grass for the morning, feeding those flowers and grasses who had survived the onslaught.

Why did such things affect her so? To have turned her mind at all to this was disconcerting. Perhaps it was the lack of lessons, this complete open freedom. To not have something to prove every time she relaxed into the depths of the Force. Apparently she hadn't gone too far within. She was still fully aware of her surroundings. Stretching out, she felt towards the fallen structures littering the enclosed meadow. It took labyrinthine routes to stroll in these fields. The aliens who slummed their lives in the few habitable building-remnants had access to something beautiful. That could be why they stayed.

Neith had to wonder then why she cared. A slight chill settled over the area. Ambient light was all that would remain in bright blue above, and fiery streaks of pink orange and gold on the other side of duracrete towers. Evening would unfold soon and drag her to where she belonged. In the dark and shadows. Except now she had no place to belong, not truly. The itch grew stronger. What was it that irked her so greatly? Letting go Neith allowed herself to be swept into the turbulent flow of the Force. It was frothy and muddy with great streaking lights searing across the deep. She dove for those lights and felt herself rebuffed and swept into eddies. Swirling in the madness of the dark side until she felt her lungs would burst she quit fighting and let it wash over her.

The answer came surely as a Lord's slap to her face. A light, so bright it seared through her until she felt irradiated, shone against her. These lights, she had never sensed them before. Weaving tangles of the Force twisted around her limbs and she was ensnared. Her eyes popped open with her realisation. Escape was the answer. That girl, the weak fool preyed upon by even weaker fools, searched for what Neith had slaughtered for. Escape and a glimmering chance at freedom. What did freedom mean? To be blinded and seared by lights, to be drowned in unknowing and uncertainty? Was it better than to simply be a spice-addled junky who could survive on the illusion of escape and freedom? The illusion was in many ways so much simpler, easier and safer. Two feet still on the ground, harm only to the self, no true risk except eventual death.

They all died one day.

Sith just seemed to ask for it a lot more than anyone else. Taking her chances meant increasing risk. Spice was calculated; far safer than killing your way through half your home and hoping you'd see light before someone's sabre protruded through your sternum. Neith risked death with every step. There was a chance that members of her brethren had been sent to hunt her down. The idea was frightening and sent a chill up and down her spine. It was not of fear, but excitement and delight in the chance to hunt highly skilled enemies. To be the prey and show her hunters how this game was truly played.

She twitched her head slightly to the side in rebuke. No, that wasn't her any longer. Besides no one was sent for her. What was the point, she'd already expressed her severe displeasure with the entirety of the Empire. What would be gained by sending assassins for her? More dead to add to the tally? While it was possible it simply was not probable. They would have to find her and she had trekked far. Further she had rather shaken up the already unstable structure of Sith. With them already plotting for power, and so many lost or wounded, there would be power struggles for years to come. She was safe; the swath of gore she had left, the mass damage that was behind her, would barricade her from retribution. For the time being she had to admit in the back of her mind. There would be someone, at some point who would seek vengeance. Even simply out of habit, or to prove themselves true Lords.

Reaching into her utility pants, she pulled out an irregularly surfaced round object. It was of an odd stone, looking almost man-made. There were many cut faces that made up the surface, all shaped and formed differently, yet it was perfectly round. Casting it into the grass and ferns before her, she flicked it on with her mind. A figure rose up in the foliage, cut through with hanging fern leaves and grasses. The figure, as always, seemed displeased. When was Darth Stroya not displeased, Neith wondered.

'_Another neophyte is dead today.'_

Apparently Darth Stroya was not a fan of pre-amble. This story was nothing new to Neith, however now she wished there was more context. A little introduction would be nice. But the holocron was more personal diary than official Sith tool, and it was a collection of Stroya's thoughts, lessons, ideas and rants. Brilliant of its own accord, but damned if it wasn't a tad jumbled and erratic.

'_Lord Ravis was amused. I, naturally, was furious. The child was strong in the Force, a great waste of life and talent now. Out of what, petty ambition? For what amounts to a game, jockeying for position. This child could have had power. Could have struck down enemies with a thought. Now left to the rakghouls for their cannibalistic feast. Others say it is the culling of the weak to make way for the strong. Traps and tricks do not make one strong. One child is a little higher upon the political ladder. I say that one can foster knowledge in any Sith. Politics are a result of power, not a means to it! One cannot foster great natural potential so easily stricken by natural childish innocence.'_

The figure was practically spitting the next words out. Neith's mouth moved slowly with them, remembering this lesson, the circumstances of the day dancing behind her eyes. The exact situation was just out of reach, but she remembered enough to recall Stroya's fury over losing the boy.

'_The fools I live with, they see this as normal. I see it as a portend for the future of our kind. Destroying the talented for the silver tongued. It will collapse upon itself, these fools who cower in grand buildings and who plot from aloft and far; they will be swept away. Such has always been the way of the Sith.'_

The figure disappeared and Neith gazed into the empty space.

The meaning of the lesson was clear enough, though how it related to her situation was unintelligible. The Force would bring her around, that much she knew. Reaching deep into the Force and ripping the answer from its clutches was her normal way of eking out solutions. There were other ways of doing things, as Stroya was hinting towards. A different method for a new beginning might be the lesson here. As that girl had found escape in spice, so Neith could find escape in the Force.

Answers – that was her only way out. First, she had to find the walls which trapped her.

* * *

In a world far away, a body perked up. It was slight and draped in cream and brown robes. Red hair, shot through with grey, was tied back in a bun. The human woman lifted her head and blinked a few times. She spent a moment collecting herself, settling back down from deep in her mind. Her gaze habitually drifted through her surroundings. The room she was in was of marble, the ceiling soaring above her on columns. It was empty of all except what one brought with them. It overlooked a vast panorama of teeming life. Here it was so calm, serene; over the lip of softly-hued marble was an endless metropolis of permacrete and durasteel. The floor was pieced together decoratively, abstract artistic carvings adding to the appeal.

She barely noticed. An overwhelming feeling of destiny squeezed her heart into a tight ball. Wanting to grip at her chest and delve deep into the problem, she knew it was a fruitless reaction. What was there to do but wait and see? How could she prepare for an unknown? It was a new variable on a board she had thought was constant. But when had it ever been constant for so long? She should have known better, known that something shadowed had brewed up. That there was a danger lurking.

It was cloying, however. She almost wished she could bask in it. Almost; it left the sense of a film on the back of her tongue. Trying to shake her head free, she knew she couldn't. The library, she thought then, a true place of solace. Standing with careful grace, she was a petite woman of around fifty standard years. Her face was lightly lined and mapped her strength and tacit strength. Warmth poured from brown eyes, nearly the colour of her hair in youth. A twi'lek of bright blue shuffled over quickly and touched her arm.

"Elena," the twi'lek breathed, concern furrowing her brow.

The older woman, Elena, laughed her off with a shake of her head. "I'm getting old, child. Paranoia is part of it. Do not worry." She patted the young Anya's hand before plucking it from her sleeve. "I'm heading for the library. How about you make us a caf and we'll settle in with some tomes?"

Anya snorted with some humour but nodded. Elena had her ways; it was why she was so greatly respected. What hummed the back of the woman's mind would eventually come out. She wasn't overly complex but needed time to process things into words. It was how she functioned. The feelings and sensations were less clear than most, but more precise when processed.

Heading to the kitchens to grab caf for the pair of them, Anya wasn't too concerned. The feelings she got from Elena were more puzzled than concerned. She brewed a fresh pot for the pair of them, enjoying the smell as the dark liquid streamed. Dumping a liberal amount into two rather large mugs, she headed for the library. Two black cafs, one enigmatic woman, and one confused student. It would make for an interesting evening.

* * *

Even at night the piecemeal village was bustling. Neith sat at the outer edge of it, in her home of collapsed walls built up against a leaning broken building. A large chunk of metal made up her door. She had neighbours, decent space was tight, but thankfully being towards the centre of the slum was seen as preferable. Closer to all the amenities, an issue which did not bother Neith very much. There were worse things than having to walk to running water or facilities. Problems like having to deal with people. In this press of downtrodden but active humanity and a score of aliens, she could easily hide. That made up for it. No one gave her too many looks anyhow. She was safe, by sheer numbers and disinterest in the drama of others (except when it made good gossip).

In her old Sith cloak, a covering common to the poor here, she blended in quite well. Her outfit wouldn't be noted here, but the shiny tight skin of her scars would raise questions far too frequently. Besides, there was something compelling about being around this many oblivious life forms. They hustled around her and her large water bladder, children who should have been in bed running under foot. Neith paid them no mind and they paid her the same favour. Women clustered in groups or lined up with Neith to collect water from one of the clean water taps.

There was something terribly honest about this. People so worthless she could kill them all without a care or thought. It wouldn't even register as a crime with the upper levels. There was no purpose to it, no point, nothing to be gained. This earned them their lives, their freedom. A freedom in their squalor and every day struggles. This was, at least, an exercise in understanding, a new lesson to be learned. So often she took trips to the upper levels to learn how to interact with the main galaxy at large. Her place in things. The only time she tromped about in the wilds was for training, survive tactics... killing. This hadn't been part of her teachings. So much had been missed. Brute force wasn't always the only measure of strength.

These people had nothing and yet they carried on. That, Neith could plainly see as the line shuffled forward, was a new sort of strength. One ignored by the Sith. One ignored even by Stroya. There was much to learn from these dregs. Besides, she had shelter and access to the world from here, coupled with anonymity. Until she sorted herself out and decided she was safe to emerge, this was the best place to hole up. What Sith would search for her here?

Back in her home, Neith set the water aside in the corner that made up her rudimentary kitchen. A few beaten pots fringed a small fire pit. There were simple kitchen tools resting nearby. Her home was nearly pitch and she lit up a lamp which flooded the entire small interior with yellow light. The only window was a skylight; the roof was a slab of outer wall which had fallen to the ground centuries before. By the kitchen there was enough of a crack for smoke to ventilate; she would still slide open her door anyway, to be sure. The slab roof hung over the corner, protecting the little gap from the elements. On the other side, against the solid building the homes on this row were abutted to, was a tangle of blankets. It certainly wasn't her bed in the Empire, but it was protected from wind and it was safer than sleeping directly outside.

There were worse things, she had to remind herself. Like being stuck here, as all these people were. Or being born here, never to escape. This was a temporary stop on her way out. It felt necessary and now was not the time to argue the Force. She had been led to this point, she would see it through. It was part of her escape. Where to, she still had not figured. The why was still a little fuzzy as well. Neith sat cross-legged in the middle of the hovel and rested the backs of her hands on her knees. Her eyes settled partially shut.

Here at least she had no worries about interruption or distraction. The thrum of living sentients around her was normal, typical; it was quickly washed out by her mind. White noise in the Force and little else. She was still puzzled over the day's lesson, the random plucking of Stroya's political rhetoric. With her confusion over her future, and the determination in her to figure out her escape

_everything_

she knew she had to sort out the lesson quickly. The Force was ever present in her life, and things had meanings. Even if they did not, in the scheme of things, have true significance events could inspire, they could compel one to think deeper and more intently on situations one may ignore. Not the sort to see the Force dictating every last minutiae of everyone's lives, she saw it more as a driving force one embodied to create meaning to enrich the mundane and open the mind to greater possibilities within the simplest things.

Or, more simply, the Force allowed her to put meaning where there was none which exercised her mind into making real that which had not been there to start with. Such was the bizarre nature of the Force. Thus while she did not, in all fact, believe the holocron was influenced by the Force to pick that _specific_ entry by Stroya, that did not mean that she would not be able to find truth and self-realisation in what she had heard. However, she could not quite figure out how anger over politicking, backstabbing and machinations of the less skilled would help her much. Yes she disagreed with the majority of masters as well; using trickery and traps to kill those stronger in the Force but simpler in the mind was going to harm them all one day.

A little dawning comprehension blossomed warmth over Neith. She dove into the rippling tide of the Force and let it sweep her away, choking and spluttering in its depths. It had been proven when she hacked her way out. One could trick their fellows surely enough, but if those who survived couldn't use the Force and sabres as well, they would pay for it in the end. A snort of humour escaped her; she felt the Force flood in and her head spun. It was as if drowning yet still she breathed.

She was dashed and broken from shore to shore, rock to boulder, rapid to riverbed. Her body felt bruised and battered in the raging, practically screaming Force.

_Politics are a result of power._

_Not a means._

_Collapse upon itself._

_Politics are a result..._

_A means..._

_... collapse upon itself._

_Swept away._

_Fools in grand buildings._

_Collapse upon itself._

_Grand building collapsed upon itself._

_Politics swept away fools._

_Not a means, a result._

Neith's eyes snapped open and she gasped, falling over with the suddenness that the idea hit her. She felt like she smashed her face into a wall. Her body writhed with the pain of being torn out of the Force so quickly. It felt glorious and she tried to shun it even as she fed off the strength it brought her. She would have to rid herself of that, with where she had to go. It was so obvious. Her path to discovery had to start somewhere, after all.

Why not the other side of everything she was? The enemy through the millennia of her people; and beyond, into hazy pasts. There were so many other teachings, ones she could study, could learn from. Discover the true strength and power of the Force. More than the power-hungry mad ramblings of the Sith.

If there was any place to start her trek, could it be simpler, more obvious?

The Jedi.


End file.
